Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  The pitch-black night descended, like an ebony cape dropped over the island, the twilight here brief. Mist started to gather over the garden.

  “At least you admit women can be sophisticated.”

  “As well as manipulative, deceitful…” Napoleon sighed. “I did love her. For her it took a bit longer.”

  Amélie rubbed her arms in the growing chill. Their stormy relationship was legendary, and then he’d set Josephine aside for his marriage into royalty. “I’m sure she loved you.”

  “She married me, en vérité, but I bullied her with my persistence. While I was in Egypt, I learned she was living in a compromising situation with a young dandy...” Napoleon broke off as if this memory still plagued him.

  “That was awful for you.” Amélie closed her eyes and absorbed his despair, the young general betrayed by love, so distant from home. She touched his thigh.

  “I was furious, so I started up a romance of my own.” His hand covered hers and she quivered. “A lively, pretty girl, but silly and empty-headed.”

  Amélie exhaled her envy and pictured herself on the exotic, sandy plains of Egypt: seductive at the foot of a pyramid, attracting the general’s fancy. “Did you fall in love with this silly girl?”

  “No, of course not. I only loved Josephine. The affair was out of revenge. Not the most intelligent reason, but I was young and impulsive.”

  “You’ve had many mistresses. They couldn’t all have been out of revenge.”

  “Such bold questions.” Napoleon’s fingers tightened on hers. “It was the way of things. Expected of men in high places. A good wife looks the other way.”

  “That’s why I’ll never marry.” She rubbed her fingers against his. A tingle started low in her abdomen. “Did you enjoy the affairs?”

  “Why are we on this topic? Enjoy? Yes, why not? Most meant nothing, it’s true. I used them, but they used me as well. I was famous and women threw themselves at me. Of course, the ones who didn’t were far more interesting.” He lowered his voice. “Few engaged my heart. I was seduced by power.”

  “Power is a cold companion. Mistresses can have broken hearts, too, when discarded.” She sagged with sadness. How could she contemplate being the mistress of a man who’d plowed through so many? He had said she was special. Her pulse throbbed.

  “Amée, I insist we change this subject neither of us is enjoying.” Napoleon massaged her hand between his. “It’s getting too cold out here.”

  Amélie stared off over the dark garden, calming her rising distress, her skin heating with the contact. The lanterns hanging over the front porch shined a weak light, but they sat in shadow. The wind whistled over the plain. The sentries marched in slow cadence around the wall.

  “You are full of contradictions, reading of Greek fables and insisting on being equal to men. One so whimsical, the other…”

  “Is that part of my charm?” She’d meant to provoke him, draw him close with emotion.

  He laughed. “Indeed, it is.”

  “I see you as full of contradictions as well.” Amélie gentled her voice.

  “Europe has paralyzed a force too gigantic for the security of the world,” Napoleon said after a short silence. “Branded an outlaw, but the allies broke the Treaty of Fontainebleau.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You escaped Elba. You’ve never told me if you’ve contemplated escape from Saint Helena,” she whispered.

  “More bold questions.” Napoleon squeezed his arm around her as if to quiet her. “When I have a plot, you’ll be the first to know, though the British will try to ring it out of you, since they’re merciless with torture.” His teasing sounded forced.

  “What about…that paper you retrieved from Sandy Bay?”

  His arm clenched around her, pressing her against his side. “Some things you are better off not knowing.”

  “You just said—”

  “Shhh, I’m trying to protect you.”

  “You’re treating me like a helpless woman. I don’t deserve that.” Amélie felt his heart beating and trembled under the heat of his arm. “Honor my intelligence, please.”

  Rumors trickled in about people on the outside outfitting ships to rescue the ex-Emperor of the French. Tales that sent Lowe into fits of reprisal against his prisoner by tightening restrictions.

  “Amée, I...” Napoleon stroked her shoulder. “Eh bien, I don’t know whom to trust anymore. I’d be a fool not to trust you, but you’re young still, and have no experience with the scheming of the world as I do.”

  “I’m learning fast. Won’t you confide in me?” She shifted her body in his arm, nestled into his warmth, a place she belonged. Now he seemed to tremble.

  Napoleon put his mouth near her ear. “It was a note to prove the island could be invaded in secret. A dry run if you will, but there’s a lot more to be done.”

  His breath tickled her nerves. “People are coming to rescue you?” Amélie’s throat tightened. She gripped his sleeve. He might be taken from her. Swept from the very isolation she’d thrived on to forge this alliance. She no longer desired elevation, only love. Was she egotistic enough to hope these plans would fail? “Who are they? When will they come back?”

  “Shhh. I’ve given up on a more civilized removal. I’d be deluding myself to think the British oligarchy will set me free. France will never demand me back, but men can always be bribed.” Napoleon squeezed her head to his cheek.

  Amélie reveled in their skin touching. His hot breath fanned her face. She moved her mouth near his, wanting to kiss him, but instead she whispered, “You could never be content enough to stay here?”

  “This is too small a territory for me, Amée.” Napoleon trailed his fingers through her hair. He kissed her temple, obviously avoiding her lips.

  Amélie steamed inside from the touch of his mouth. At the thump of footfalls, she snapped up her head. The dim lantern light outlined several sentries marching through the front gate and into their yard. She shuddered, afraid they’d heard their conversation.

  Napoleon jerked away from her. “I’d forgotten. Lowe now demands the sentries surround the house at six-thirty instead of nine.” He stood, his words abrupt and angry. “I will have Bertrand contest this abuse of the governor’s authority! This constant insult to my person.”

  Amélie rose and followed him into the house, the defeated general bombarded by foreign troops. In the salon she grabbed his arm and said, “Who was that note from?”

  “You must never mention these things to anyone.” Napoleon clasped her shoulder, hard—his face the mask of a man still in command. “We will speak no more of it. Now please, I insist you forget it all.”

  “You know I won’t tell. Please don’t leave me ignorant of your plans.” Amélie’s firm words coated the fear she’d be abandoned. Even with the English subjugating their every move, Saint Helena provided the freedom she craved to not be hobbled by society’s limitations. Did she cling to a relationship that had no future? Every ounce of intelligence warned her not to encourage an affaire d’amour.

  Chapter Eighteen

  So does Fortune frustrate—N.B

  Napoleon smiled after O’Sullivan left his study, his final visit. He reread the retrieved paper. One of O’Sullivan’s men had rowed his skiff up to Sandy Bay and deposited it, proving Lowe’s precautions weren’t infallible. The Irishman and his ship sailed off to England tomorrow. They’d been delayed on the island refitting the ship after damage from a storm. Four to five months he’d have to wait for their return, but his other plan should be set in motion soon.

  Montholon lingered in the dining room and Napoleon invited him into his study.

  “Sire, I don’t know how you put up with that buffoonish captain,” Montholon said, his cool blue gaze assessing, “and why you dismiss me whenever he visits anymore.”r />
  “Don’t concern yourself. We speak of things that wouldn’t interest you.” Napoleon kept Montholon out of any discussions because of Amélie’s warnings about him. Too bad he couldn’t let her in on his plans; she always had such good advice. The less people who knew, the better for him. He shouldn’t have told her as much as he did, always finding her so easy to talk to. His intentions obviously upset her, and he couldn’t add that to his list of worries.

  “Albine and I have felt much neglected, Sire. I can’t help but think you hide things from me.” Montholon gave his wheedling smile between curly sideburns, but even this looked jaded.

  “Such as? Sully, that’s what his friends call him, tells me about his lusty mistress at the Cape. A half-Chinese woman who knows all the ways of the Orient in pleasing him.” Napoleon chuckled at his courtier’s reddening cheeks. Montholon affected a prissy exterior, yet married Albine with her notorious past, then seemed apathetic about his wife’s attentions to him.

  “Forgive me, Sire. I don’t want to trouble you in any way, but I do have something to discuss.” Montholon sauntered about the room with that annoying feline grace and brushed his hand over his left epaulet. “There are rumors going about the island that you have a lusty, young mistress. The officers at Deadwood are laughing over the great Emperor of the French, if you’ll pardon me, bedding his kitchen maid.”

  Napoleon glared, about to shout. This hurt more than he should let on. “Don’t speak to me of such slander. I don’t think of her that way. She’s decent…” He almost said she was a child, but he lied. She’d turned into a desirable woman.

  “I’m just repeating what is circulating about the island. I only warn you to assist you in preserving your reputation. These rumors will spread to Europe, Your Majesty. You told me when we first arrived that you don’t want to give your esteemed wife any reason to seek a divorce. You must honor the union to safeguard your son’s future.”

  “We will discuss this no more. Leave me.” Napoleon loathed it when Montholon struck a sore spot. He had to remain infallible, above suspicion, though always susceptible to vulgar gossip. Now Amélie’s reputation suffered, when they’d done nothing wrong—another reason to keep her pure. The stirrings he’d felt when he kissed her would only deter him from his mission. He trailed his fingers over his chest, his heart. Love was an emotion he could ill afford.

  * * * *

  Amélie put silverware into the drawer in the dining room sideboard. Count Bertrand escorted a visitor toward the salon, Captain O’Sullivan, the boisterous Irishman whom Napoleon liked. He piqued her curiosity because the Count de Montholon always grumbled at his presence.

  Amélie hurried to the salon, to eavesdrop, but Bertrand and the captain exited the house quickly. She couldn’t help but link this visitor to the paper at Sandy Bay, but Napoleon must be delusional to consider escaping from the island.

  Ali strutted in the front door with a box. He placed it on the billiard table. “Look, more gifts from Lady Holland. She never forgets us, the one person who gets past Lowe’s scrutiny, though she’s never sent anything forbidden.”

  “Ali, what do you know about that Captain O’Sullivan who just left?”

  He ripped open the box and pulled out books and candy from the straw. “I don’t know anything. Ask His Majesty.” Ali winked at her, but he’d never questioned her about the nature of their relationship.

  A loud crash in the dining room sent them both running into that chamber to investigate.

  Their major-domo, Cipriani, was on his knees, sprawled across an overturned chair. He struggled to rise. “Call Doctor O’Meara, sur-le-champ,” he gasped out, his other hand clutching his gut. He collapsed onto his side as Amélie fled the room to find the doctor.

  By the time she returned with O’Meara, Cipriani groaned and writhed on the floor, with Ali trying to calm him. The two men picked him up and carried him into the library, as more people gathered around.

  Napoleon rushed from his study, his expression vexed. “O’Meara, what has happened to him? What ails my Franceschi? Can you do anything?”

  “It’s so sudden, sir, I haven’t any idea. Let me get him settled and examined.” The doctor knelt down, pulled out Cipriani’s shirt and unbuttoned his breeches. “Someone bring me a cot.”

  That evening Amélie carried a bowl of soup in to the suffering man. The room already stank of rot. With O’Meara sitting beside him, Cipriani moaned on the bed. Soaked in perspiration, his angular face was pinched in agony.

  Her hands shook so violently, she almost dropped the bowl. She jostled the soup onto a little table beside the doctor. “My father says...try to get him to eat. Affreux.”

  “What’s the matter, Amélie?” O’Meara stared at her. “You look about to faint. Please, you had better leave. Tell your father I doubt if he can eat anything right now. He’s in serious pain. I’ve seen nothing like it.”

  Outside the library door, she gulped for breath, pressing her head between her hands. The man was dying. She knew it, because her mother had died in the same way. At least that’s how she remembered it. The dreadful memories gushed back as if just unfolding. Her stomach clenched over that irreplaceable loss.

  Amélie bolted for the courtyard to breathe in the outside air, her hand over her mouth to keep from gagging. She’d avoid Cipriani’s room after that.

  * * * *

  “An abrupt, mysterious inflammation of the bowels,” O’Meara said in the dining room, his round face deflated in exhaustion after two days of tending Cipriani. The doctor swiped tears from his eyes. “Aye, well, he was my friend, and I couldn’t save him. I don’t know what else I could have done.”

  Amélie fought her own tears at Napoleon’s grief-stricken face. After the consulting British doctor from Deadwood left, the emperor withdrew to his study. She rushed to knock on that door, to offer emotional support.

  The Count de Montholon opened the door. His icy gaze sharpened. “The emperor is receiving no one, Mademoiselle. Not even you.” He veiled a sneer behind his smile and blocked the study entrance.

  “I think he will see me, Count, if you please.” Amélie tried to edge past him.

  Montholon seized her by the arm and steered her toward the prep room. “Mais non. He’s resting now and doesn’t wish to be bothered, so be off. Attend to your, uh, kitchen duties.”

  She stared resentfully at the smooth-faced nobleman and his jaundiced expression. She swept his insulting hands away and left the main house.

  After dinner, Amélie tried again. On entering the dining room she caught a glimpse of the back of Albine de Montholon’s head as the woman minced into the emperor’s chambers.

  Amélie slumped against the wall. Her heart felt like it tumbled to her feet.

  She bristled with fury. An unscrupulous mistress—even fresh from childbed—offered more comfort than the cook’s daughter. Her risen status crumbled in the wake of rank and privilege. The count manipulated his wife back into Napoleon’s arms!

  What if Napoleon became ill like Cipriani and she wasn’t allowed to see him? Amélie swallowed a sob and returned to her room. She snatched up her hairbrush, about to fling it against her closed door. Then she clumped the scratchy bristles in her palm. She’d devise another way in.

  * * * *

  “His Majesty paces within his interior, restless, never sits, won’t sleep.” Marchand’s expression sad, he polished a pair of Napoleon’s leather shoes—after removing the oval gold buckles—with Dubbin, a combination of wax, oil, and tallow at the dining room table. “Cipriani was also a friend of mine, so I too feel this loss.”

  “I wish there was something I could do.” Amélie hadn’t slept well either, fuming over the harlot of a countess and the count’s treating her like a servant, plus Napoleon’s upset. “The Count de Montholon refused to let me see Napoleon last night.”

 
“The emperor had some of his peculiar symptoms, which worries me.” The valet worked a greasy cloth over the leather, the pungent smell stinging Amélie’s eyes. He glanced at her with indulgence. “The count and his wife are jealous of the attention His Majesty lavishes on you.”

  “I don’t care. Help me get in to see the emperor. He’d never deny me access. He needs my comfort.” Amélie clutched her elbows, staring toward the study door. “I worry when he has those symptoms too.” Something more sinister than an arbitrary island disease infected this house, and she struggled to fit it together.

  “Both counts are bending over backwards trying to console the emperor.” Marchand said nothing about the level of her “comfort,” always the diplomat. “All right, come back later tonight. I’ll sneak you in.”

  Amélie returned to her room and plopped on her bed. Cipriani’s writhing pain festered in her mind. Suddenly she wanted to write to her brother, Theo, to see what he remembered of their mother’s death. Was it as agonizing as she recalled? She couldn’t ask her father. Sadly, they’d never once discussed this poignant subject.

  She slid out her writing case from under her bed: a scratched hand-me-down from the house. Paper was scarce on the island, so she rooted around for the crumpled piece of brown wrapping paper she’d saved, and dipped her quill in ink. Her query short, her hand faltering a bit, she sprinkled sand, shook it off, and placed the letter on her dresser.

  Albine’s mincing form trampled away her maternal laments. Napoleon might be right—a woman’s charm did seem the one power she wielded over a man. Her ignorance frustrated her. If no information was available for a woman to learn of the bedroom, why couldn’t she write it herself? She laughed. Her inexperience would prevent it. She’d have to seek advice—but where?

  Before her courage deserted her, she snatched out more paper scraps and wrote down the theory that a woman needed to be prepared to accept or reject intimacy, whether in the confines of marriage or not.